Some shaggy ponies now
were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys
in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits,
and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that
the crisp air laughed to hear it.
‘These are but shadows of the
things that have been,’ said the Ghost. ‘They have no consciousness of
us.’
The jocund travellers came on; and as
they came, Scrooge knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all
bounds to see them! Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went
past! Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry
Christmas, as they parted at crossroads and bye-ways, for their
several homes! What was merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out upon merry Christmas! What
good had it ever done to him?
‘The school is not quite
deserted,’ said the Ghost. ‘A solitary child, neglected by his friends,
is left there still.’
Scrooge said he knew it. And he
sobbed.
They left the high-road, by a well
remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little
weathercock-surmounted cupola on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large
house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their
walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls
clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run
with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the
dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them
poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly
bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by
candlelight, and not too much to eat.
They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across
the hall, to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a
long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and
desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat
down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he had used to be.
Not a latent echo in
the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip
from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the
leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty
store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge
with a softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.
The Spirit touched him on the arm, and
pointed to his younger self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign
garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with
an axe stuck in his belt, and leading an ass laden with wood by the bridle.
‘Why, it’s Ali Baba!’
Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. ‘It’s dear old honest Ali Baba! Yes, yes,
I know! One Christmas time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he
didcome, for the first time, just like that. Poor boy! And
Valentine,’ said Scrooge, ‘and his wild brother, Orson; there they go!
And what’s his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the Gate of
Damascus; don’t you see him! And the Sultan’s Groom turned upside-down
by the Genii; there he is upon his head! Serve him right. I’m glad of it. What
business had heto be married to the Princess!’
To hear Scrooge expending all the
earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between
laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face;
would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed.
‘There’s the Parrot!’
cried Scrooge. ‘Green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce
growing out of the top of his head; there he is! Poor Robin Crusoe, he called him,
when he came home again after sailing round the island. “Poor Robin Crusoe,
where have you been, Robin Crusoe?” The man thought he was dreaming, but he
wasn’t. It was the Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for his life
to the little creek! Halloa! Hoop! Halloo!’
Then, with a rapidity of transition very
foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, ‘Poor
boy!’ and cried again.